


The House Wins

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [14]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen, but he's actually just an angry nerd, caranthir thinks he's a mafia godfather, gratuitous mentions of knitting, not victorian anymore because we're in 1902 now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Behind every great fortune is a crime, and behind every great man is a much better woman.





	1. Hired

_ Atlantic City, New Jersey _

_ 1902 _

 

From the minute I met Nina Wisnewski I knew she was someone I could rely on.

Really, a person I could rely on was exactly what I needed in the summer of 1902. The hotel and (technically illegal) casino I’d established in Atlantic City, Thargelion Resort, as taking off at an alarming rate, and as little as I liked to rely on other people I could hardly continue to organize everything single-handedly. My brothers were out of the question for assistants, of course. Those who weren’t actively on the run from the law were primarily concerned with their own business ventures, as well as the daunting task of avenging our father and grandfather’s deaths and stealing back our family fortune. We generally only saw one another at Christmas, or when someone was trying to avoid prison, or both.

And so I did what anyone else in my position would do: I put an advertisement for a secretary in the local paper. Answered, the next day, by a Miss Nina Wisnewski.

She arrived at my office precisely ten minutes before her interview time and sat, staring resolutely at the clock, until I finally called her inside. I said nothing to her at first; one of the many things my father had taught me was that a few minutes of awkward silence grants on the upper hand. So I sat, and inspected the lady in front of me.

She was fairly young—perhaps twenty-five—of medium height, and thin as a twig, clad in a neat but very worn blue suit. Her dark brown hair was pulled back tightly, emphasizing her narrow green eyes and strong nose. It was, I thought, quite plain from her clothes that she was desperately in need of work, though she would be far too proud to say so.

“Miss Nina Wisnewski, I presume,” I said at last.

“Yes, sir. And you must be Mr. Caranthir Gates,” she replied, looking at me appraisingly. “I wasn’t expecting you to be British.”

“I was British once, perhaps. Now I am as American as you. Take a seat, Miss Wisnewski, you must be tired from bicycling all the way here.”

She sat, frowning. “If I may ask, how did you know I cycled here?”

“Your skirt. It clears your ankles by a good six inches, and has buttons down the front—for easier riding, one assumes. Not to mention that your stockings have mud on them.”

“Your powers of deduction are impressive, Mr. Gates. Though I am a bit concerned that you were looking at my ankles.”

“Merely observing your manner of dress. Rest assured, your ankles themselves do not concern me in the slightest.” They were, in fact, rather nice ankles, though I chose not to say so. “Do you know how to use a typewriter?”

“I do,” Nina replied, seeming not at all disconcerted by the sudden change in the conversation.

“And write in shorthand?”

“Of course.”

“And answer a telephone?”

“Yes.”

“And keep secrets?”

She blinked. “Is that likely to be necessary?”

“It’s entirely possible. This is a fine hotel, of course, but many of our guests would prefer that their activities remain...private. Working here will require great discretion. If this is something you feel uncomfortable with, then you are more than welcome to leave.”

“Mr. Gates, my parents moved here from Poland without a penny in their pockets, and I have four younger siblings to help support,” Nina said. “In my family, we take what work we can find.”

I nodded approvingly. “Good answer. In that case, you’re hired.”

Nina looked surprised. “Goodness, that was a quick decision.”

“Truthfully, Miss Wisnewski? I don’t have any other applicants to choose from.”

She smiled then...a nice smile, really. “And I don’t have any other employers to choose from. When do I start?”

I handed her the enormously heavy ledger containing my weekly schedule. “Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

 

It was clear from the outset that I’d made the correct choice in hiring Nina. My new secretary was more than capable of the occasional snide remark about a drunk hotel guest, but to me she was a consummate professional. She was a quick learner, too: within a week she knew who was banned from the premises, which policemen took bribes, and whose telephone calls not to bother me with. 

She did occasionally show some sparks of defiance: when I gave her twenty dollars to buy herself a new wardrobe for work, she dutifully bought herself one new jacket and one new blouse, and nothing more. When I reprimanded her for it, she simply said, “My brother and sisters needed new shoes, Mr. Gates. Surely my clothes aren’t so offensive that you’d rather see small children going barefoot?”

I had to admit, that floored me. In the end, I handed her another ten dollars and told her to get  _ herself  _ a new pair of shoes if she was so keen on footwear. This may have been her intention all along, something I wholeheartedly respected.

I heard little from my family during this time. None of us were having any luck tracing the diamond which that girl from Louisiana had stolen from Melkor Bauglir (or Morgoth, as he was calling himself) and these days we didn’t usually contact one another just to chat. And so I was somewhat surprised, a few weeks later, when Nina came into my office and announced that one of my brothers was outside.

“Which one?” I asked her, hurriedly stashing the scarf I’d been working on in my desk drawer (several of my brothers had a tendency to tease me for knitting, though I frequently reminded them that knitting needles made for excellent weapons).

“He didn’t say his name, but I asked him to clear our his pockets and he handed me a harmonica, a tuning fork, and a switchblade.”

“Ah, that’ll be Maglor. Send him in.” It wasn’t surprising, I supposed, that my second-oldest brother had stopped by; being in New York, he was the closest to me geographically, though he was generally occupied with the vaudeville theatre he’d opened in Brooklyn. The theatre, incidentally, was named The Gap, for reasons known only to Maglor himself, and the last time I’d been there I had been forced to sit through thirty minutes of my brother playing the hurdy-gurdy. This was not an experience I was keen to repeat...as fond as I was of Maglor, who had always been kind to me when we were children, he could be quite unbearably loud.

He was ushered in a moment later, wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat with his hair in disarray. I hadn’t seen Maglor for nearly a year, and every time we met he looked a little more exhausted; there were purple shadows under his eyes, and a few threads of silver in his hair. Still, he managed a smile when he saw me. “Caranthir. How is my favorite baby brother?”

“ _ Baby  _ brother? I am nearly thirty-four, Maglor.”

“Nevertheless, you’ll always be my baby brother.” He sank into the chair across from my desk and yawned. “How is business?”

“Booming, of course. How is New York?” I asked.

Maglor gestured vaguely. “New York is...New York. Always a thousand things happening at once and not one of them of any substance.”

I resisted the urge to tell him that if it was substance he was looking for, running a vaudeville theatre was most likely not the way to go. “So what brings you to Atlantic City? I’m always pleased to see you, but…”

“I’ve had a letter,” Maglor said with a sigh. “From Annie.”

“Oh.” I winced. My sister-in-law Annie was a sensitive topic, as she had remained in Britain when all of us had fled. As a matter of fact, she had originally been more than willing to come with us, but after the shootout at the Liverpool docks (what my family referred to euphemistically as The Incident) Maglor had all but forced her to stay behind. “I won’t have my wife becoming a criminal,” he’d said, and that was that.

It had been the right choice, and we all knew it. Just as it had been the right choice for Mum to stay behind. But ever since then, all of us had changed into people I sometimes found it difficult to recognize. Even myself.

“How is Annie?” I asked, as brightly as I could manage. “Doing well?”

“Well enough, considering. Not much news from back home this time. Mum’s still in Ireland, and Uncle Finarfin is adequately managing the family business. Granny Indis is spending most of her time in France these days. Oh, and Annie’s sold the castle.”

I felt a twinge of pain in my stomach. Castle Formenos had been a crumbling old pile with minimal redeeming qualities, but for two years it had been our home. It wasn’t easy to think of someone else picking over our home, throwing out my knitting needles and Celegorm’s hunting trophies and everything else we’d left behind.

“For the best, really,” I said. “That old place was a money pit.”

Maglor let out a harsh laugh. “I suppose it was at that. And full of mice. If Annie’s managed to fetch enough money from it to live off of, then that’s something to be glad of.”

“I’m sorry, you know,” I said. “About...The Incident. I wish things could have gone differently.”

“Why are you apologizing to me? I was there, I was as guilty as the rest of you. If anything, I ought to be doing the apologizing...aren’t older brothers supposed to set a good example? A damned fine job I’ve been doing of that lately.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, you’ve always been a terrible example. When was the last time you woke up before noon? And wasn’t it you who introduced us to absinthe?”

He laughed again, more genuinely this time, much to my relief. I’ve always thought that as long as my brothers and I can still make each other laugh, things will manage to hold together somehow.

“I have a confession to make: I didn’t come here just to discuss the news from Britain,” Maglor said, still grinning. “Celegorm and Curufin are both visiting at the moment and I’m quite desperate to get away from them for a few days. If I hear  _ one more  _ argument about that heiress from Louisiana…”

“Dear God, are they still on the subject of Luthien duBois? That was three years ago.”

“And yet they still talk about nothing else! Not to mention that they harass the chorus girls and have drunk their way through half of my wine supply.”

“Ah, I think I may have a solution for that last problem.” I rang the bell on my desk and Nina entered, standing firmly at attention.

“Yes, sir?”

“Miss Wisnewski, would you please fetch a bottle of whiskey from downstairs? The ‘98 Glenleery will do.”

Nina nodded briskly and exited, the heels of her boots clicking on the floor. Maglor looked over his shoulder at her, a slightly worrisome half-smile on his face.

“What a dignified young woman,” he remarked. “Has she been practical enough to live up to your very high standards?”

“Very much so. Not sure how I managed without her, really.”

“And tell me something honestly: Are you going to be one of those businessmen who falls in love with his secretary?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you romantic idiot. Unfortunately I can’t say it’s particularly likely. You know me, the only thing I love is money.”

“And your dear brothers, of course.”

“Debatable. I propose we spend the rest of the evening drinking in silence.”

“Is that why you had Miss Wisnewski confiscate my harmonica?”

“You know me too well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Mario Puzo for stealing the tagline to The Godfather for this work's summary.
> 
> A few things:
> 
> 1\. I blame Tumblr for a) Caranthir's love of knitting and b) Maglor's love of weird musical instruments.  
> 2\. I'm never sure whether to give the Feanorian daughters-in-law in this universe Elvish names or regular ones. As usual, I've split the difference: Nina is both a garden-variety human name, and contains Nin, which translates to something like Tears, which would also be my name if I worked for Caranthir.  
> 3\. In this universe, the First Kinslaying has been replaced by The Shootout in Liverpool. Just go with it.  
> 4\. Sometimes I ask myself if I'm capable of writing one of these without Maglor in it. The answer appears to be no.


	2. Fired

Maglor’s visit was pleasant, overall; he avoided singing any opera and lost half his money at the roulette wheel, and we had a few good laughs reminiscing about all the nonsense our brothers got up to. When he departed three days later, I was in fairly good spirits, though eager to get back to work. I’d been neglecting my duties while entertaining my brother, and when I returned to the office Nina had left a very large pile of correspondence on my desk.

At the top of the pile of mail was a letter from Mr. Jenkins, the man I’d hired to manage the casino—he was entirely too cheerful and talkative for my taste, but competent enough. Ripping open the envelope, I skimmed the first few lines.

 

_ Mr. Gates: Even though your secretary has seen fit to fire me, and has no doubt filled your head with false accusations, I can assure you that I remain a loyal employee, and hope that we will soon be able to rectify this situation... _

 

I stared at the letter, feeling my face starting to burn.  _ Fired  _ him? After all the trust I’d put in her, all the responsibility I’d given her, that idiotic, arrogant girl had fired my casino manager? The  _ nerve _ of it, the bloody  _ cheek.  _

“ _ Miss Wisnewski!”  _ I shouted at the top of my lungs. “ _ Get in here!” _

Nina entered, outwardly calm, though there was a hint of nervousness in her eyes. “Mr. Gates?”

“Young woman, I need you to explain to me  _ immediately  _ why I have just heard from my casino manager that you  _ sacked  _ him!”

“Mr. Jenkins was cheating you,” Nina said coolly. “I looked over the books, he’s been skimming off the top for months. He’s a liar.”

“And why, pray tell, did you sack him yourself instead of waiting for me to do so, like  _ any other sane secretary would do?” _ I asked through gritted teeth. 

“You were entertaining your brother, I didn’t want to disturb you. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I do have a replacement candidate lined up already, a friend from my neighborhood. Mr. Telchar Silverstein. Not only is he a whiz with numbers, he’s an absolute gentleman, and you’ll never have to worry about him cheating you…”

“Enough,” I interrupted. “I don’t bloody care about your neighbors. Get out of my office and go home while I decide whether or not to sack you, sue your family, and burn down your house.”

Her composure faltered, and I could see fear flash across her face. “But, sir…”

“ _ Out!” _

Nina bobbed an awkward curtsey (a curtsey, really?) and fled. I, meanwhile, poured myself a mug of whiskey and pulled out my knitting needles, channeling my anger into what was likely to become the world’s lumpiest scarf.

 

For the next few days, things were rough at the hotel. Having lost both a secretary and a manager, my workload seemed to have doubled overnight. Not to mention that, after going through the books, I realized Nina had been right: Mr. Jenkins  _ had  _ been stealing. When he showed up to beg for his job back, I threw a dictionary at his head. Somehow, even that failed to improve my mood.

The truly embarrassing part, though, was that I found myself genuinely  _ missing _ Nina. Not just her professional competence, but her witty remarks and muddy stockings and the smell of the cabbage rolls she always brought in for lunch. In fact, I realized much to my disgust, I had become  _ fond  _ of her. A classic mistake: one should never become fond of one’s employees, because that is precisely when they betray you and start firing people on your behalf.

I’d nearly forgotten about Nina’s suggestion for Mr. Jenkins’ replacement (or, more accurately, had deliberately ignored it out of spite), but apparently Nina herself hadn’t forgotten. I came into the office one morning and found, sitting just outside my door, a short, sturdy man with fair hair and a bushy beard. I frowned.

“Do I know you?”

“Don’t think so, no,” he said brightly, standing and shaking my hand firmly. “I think you might know my neighbor Nina, though. Skinny girl, very organized, has a bicycle. She told me you were in need of a new manager.”

“Ah,” I sighed. “You must be Telchar Silverstein. She actually sent you, then. Well, Mr. Silverstein, unfortunately your neighbor has proven herself completely untrustworthy and unprofessional, and so I’m disinclined to take her advice on anything, let alone employment candidates.”

Telchar nodded. “Nina told me what happened. She’s real sore about it, says she loved this job and she’s let down her family. I think sending me here is her way of making up for it.”

“Ah.” I absolutely refused to feel guilty; after all, this was  _ her  _ fault. “And do you think you’re qualified for this job, Mr. Silverstein?”

“Well, I don’t like to brag, you know, but yes, I’d say so. It’s a fine establishment you’ve got here, and I think we can make it even more profitable than it is. You’ve got your regulars, of course, but we need to get some new folks through the door, and some big spenders at that. If you’re willing to give me a chance, we may be able to double our revenue in six months.”

I opened the door to my office, ushering him inside. “Interesting. Let’s talk, then.”

 

I hired him, of course.

Nina had been right, he was excellent with numbers and a true gentleman. Things were up and running again at a nearly normal rate as soon as he joined the staff. Without Nina, though, things weren’t the same.

We hadn’t been in contact since I’d sent her away, and I hadn’t interviewed anyone to take her place. The effect of this was that the responsibility of organizing my calendar and dealing with my appointments fell entirely to me.

“Bloody unbearable,” I griped one morning, flipping through my schedule as Telchar waiting politely in front of my desk. “How am I meant to survive without a secretary?”

“With all due respect, sir, have you thought about hiring a new one?” Telchar asked.

“I…” I blinked. “Well. I suppose I  _ have,  _ but…”

“But you haven’t advertised for one, sounds like. Permission to speak plainly, Mr. Gates?”

“Granted.”

“I would say that you haven’t hired a new secretary because you’d really prefer to have Nina back. Am I wrong?” 

I sighed. “Cheeky of you to say it, but you may be right. I suppose if she’s willing to apologize I am willing to forgive her. The real question is, how shall I go about convincing her to come back?”

“Well, this is just an idea, you know,” said Telchar thoughtfully, “but maybe you ought to  _ ask  _ her.”

“Brilliant. I knew there was a reason I hired you. Hand me that scarf, would you?”

Nina had given me her address as part of her hiring paperwork—she lived in a poorer part of town populated mainly by recent immigrants. The building she lived in, I noted on my arrival, was a tenement, plain and simple. Lines of wet laundry hung from the windows, there were piles of rubbish on the curb, and I could hear children shrieking from several flats. It was difficult to associate neat-as-a-pin Nina with a place like this, though I told myself that once I re-hired her, I’d give her enough of a pay raise to move her family to a better home.

I strolled up the rickety stairs to the apartment I knew was Nina’s (6B) and knocked on the door, which seemed barely hanging onto its hinges. After a few moments of awkwardly waiting in the hall, a small woman with dark hair and green eyes answered it. 

“Yes, sir?” she said haltingly.

“You must be Nina’s mother,” I said. “May I come in?”

She nodded nervously, stepping aside to let me into the flat. It was a clean but tiny place, with a faint smell of burnt toast hanging in the air and an enormous pile of folded laundry on a chair. Oddly enough, it reminded me a bit of my old family home back in London—our townhouse had been much larger, of course, but it’d had the exact same look of chaos hanging about. The feeling was strangely comforting.

Nina emerged from the other room in a heavily patched brown dress, wiping her hands on her apron. Worry flashed across her face when she saw me, followed by...something I couldn’t quite identify. I, on the other hand, simply felt a rush of relief. 

“Miss Wisnewski. Glad to see you’re doing...well?”

“Well enough, considering,” Nina replied with a shrug. “I’ve been helping Ma take in laundry from the neighbors. Not the most interesting work, but it’s a living.”

“I appreciate you sending Mr. Silverstein to me,” I said, after an awkward pause. “He’s doing well, nice chap.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Nina replied, with great dignity for a person with what looked like soot on her nose. “Did you come here just to tell me that?”

“No, I...look, let’s cut to the chase,” I said. “I’m here to offer you your job back. Thargelion’s falling apart without you and, to tell the truth, I miss you.”

Nina looked thoughtful for a minute, before shaking her head. “Thank you, Mr. Gates, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Well, why in the world not? Do you want me to  _ grovel  _ here? I admit it, I was wrong about Mr. Jenkins, and wrong about Telchar Silverstein, and completely wrong to lose my temper and fire you. I  _ apologize _ . Is that enough for you?”

“It’s very kind of you to apologize, but that’s really not why I’m refusing…”

“Then what is it? You liked your job, I know you did, and you need the work. What  _ possible  _ reason could you have for turning down my offer other than sheer spite?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Isn’t that obvious by now, Mr. Gates?”

“Absolutely bloody not. Explain yourself.”

With a hint of a smile, Nina stepped closer, raised herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed me on the cheek.

I don’t have photographic evidence of this, but I’m fairly sure that was the reddest my face had ever been.

 

“So I was right after all,” Maglor remarked when I informed him, some months later, that Nina and I were engaged. “You  _ are  _ one of those businessmen who falls in love with his secretary.”

“Believe me, I’m as disappointed in myself as anyone. Who would have thought I’d become such a cliché?”

“Oh, certainly, an unbearable cliché. I’ve written at least three musical comedies on this very subject.” He winked at me. “The question is, though, are you a  _ happy _ cliché?”

I couldn’t suppress a grin. “The happiest cliché in New Jersey, I’d say. Possibly the entire East Coast.”

“I won’t have you calling my fiancé a cliché, Mr. Gates,” Nina called from outside my office. “That’s entirely my job now.”

Maglor smiled broadly and raised his glass of whiskey. “I’ll drink to that, sister.”


End file.
